


Cherished Dreams

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Some crude humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> "I need to think. I need to remain calm and professional. I need not to think about that speech I was composing for the last two weeks about this mass of feelings inside of me. About how it makes me so happy to receive her letters when she’s out in the field. About how much it meant to me that she trusted my judgment after that horrible breakdown. About how absolutely nothing ever was going on between me and Hawke. About how I miss her every time she leaves Skyhold. About how I look after her every time she leaves the War Room when she’s here, watching her hips move, imagining…</i><br/>Stop it, Rutherford." </p><p> </p><p> An act in which Roxanne Trevelyan returns to Skyhold after Crestwood, Cullen Rutherford spars shirtless, and there are Issues with the Inquisition's spymaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherished Dreams

 

 _Keep my distance I tried_  
_No use_  
_But no matter the miles_  
_I'm back to you_

 _I could try to forget what you do when I let you get_  
_Through to me but then you do it over again_  
_I could rage like a fire and you'd bring rain I desire_  
_‘Til you get to me on my morningside_  
_\--Sarah Bareilles, Morningside—_

_There's a part of me you'll never know_  
_The only thing I'll never show_  
  
_Hopelessly I'll love you endlessly_  
_Hopelessly I'll give you everything_  
_But I won't give you up_  
_I won't let you down_  
_And I won't leave you falling_  
_If the moment ever comes_  
_\--Muse, Endlessly—_

 

He really didn’t plan to be busy in the training yard when Roxanne finally made it back to Skyhold. Honestly.  He also didn’t plan on demonstrating arm lock techniques on a larger opponent that just happened to be The Iron Bull. And he absolutely didn’t plan on both of them being naked from the waist up—but when one approaches training thoroughly and wants to get it into the more advanced soldiers’ head exactly where the vulnerable muscle groups are…

“And with this move I will either force him to the groundor else his left arm will be dislocated,” he announces to the people around him and cocks an eyebrow at The Bull. “Provided he’s my enemy, which he’s now supposed to be.”

“Oh. Right.” Iron Bull manages to look sheepish, and the trainees chuckle. “Sorry, I was just lost there for that bit where you force me to the ground.”

“Hey!” Of course Dorian Pavus is sitting right there on the fence that separates the grounds from the courtyard proper, and his wave is _very_ enthusiastic. “Can I volunteer for that part, Commander?”

There is more laughter and Cullen can’t help but grin. The Tevene mage is truly an insufferable tease, but he’s doing it equally to both sexes, and Cullen really can’t fault him for trying to bring some levity into the otherwise pretty grim days of the Inquisition. So despite his best convictions, and because he really is starting to feel at home with these people at last, he turns and slowly appraises Dorian.

“I don’t quite think you could keep up, _mage_ ,” he says, pitching his voice just a bit lower than usual, “but take a number and we’ll see.”

There are the predictable hoots, whistles and laughter: this is army training ground, after all, and Cullen remembers that his trainee days at Kinloch Hold were not that much different. He shakes his head, marveling at how time changes things. Even a year ago it would have been impossible to the man he was _then_ to act like this, but this is the Inquisition and they are on uncharted waters.

Besides, morale in the troops can always use improvement; especially in this group. They are all veterans of Haven, seen things that were straight out of nightmares and legends, _survived_ them, and are well on their way to become leaders of those flocking under their banners now.

“Therefore, if I may have your attention, ladies and gentlemen, for the _actual_ training part of this morning, Advanced Unarmed Techniques…” he continues, turning back towards his opponent. “We shall learn that from all the guards we have practiced this far and which I hope everyone managed to get through their sodding thick skulls, we can arrive at this play. Observe.” He crooks a finger at The Bull. “Try to hit me, Captain, if you would.”

“ _Try_ , Commander?” The Qunari tilts his head to the side. “What is this word of which you speak?”

More chuckles. Cullen sighs.

“Just come at me, you giant horned man-beast.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Bull chortles, and starts to move.

“And from this position,” Cullen says, his left hand coming up, lightning fast, “proceed as follows.” He’s using his best military voice, projecting clearly to all corners of the grounds while demonstrating the technique. “Jam his right inside elbow with your left hand, and bring your right hand up behind and against his left elbow.” His voice is underscored by The Iron Bull’s surprised grunt as his frontal assault is arrested and his great body is turned, almost by magic. “Now you quickly make the second play, that is to say, having gripped him like this, turn your body to the left,” another grunt, “and as a result he either goes to the ground or his arm will be dislocated.” There is a thud.

“Well, I’ll be snookered.” That’s Mathis, one of the soldiers in the training yard he has high hopes for. He cocks his head to one side, contemplatively viewing the Qunari sprawled on the ground. “That worked.”

“It _always_ works.” Cullen extends a hand towards The Iron Bull, and he lumbers on his feet, grinning and shaking his head.

“That was awesome!” he says enthusiastically. “How many of those moves do you have?”

“You _do_ want all of my secrets, don’t you?” Cullen wiggles an eyebrow. “Remain my chew toy for this morning, and you shall see.”

“Only if I can return the favor later with the shield practice and…oh, _hello_ , Boss.” The Bull breaks off his teasing and lifts a hand, waving it in the air and somewhat managing to look a bit…sheepish? “Didn’t know you were due in today?”

“I _certainly_ did not expect finding the captain of our auxiliary reconnaissance forces and our Commander-General to have half-naked grappling demonstrations in the courtyard.” That clipped voice is unmistakable; and Cullen spins around to find the Inquisitor watching them from the saddle of a grey Orlesian mare with what might be slight amusement on her features.

Two things go through his mind almost simultaneously.  _Maker’s Breath, she is gorgeous even covered in travel muck and fatigued from long ride,_ and _it’s not that she hasn’t seen me half-naked before,_ and that’s when he feels the mother of all blushes coming on.

 “Oh, do not stop on my account,” Roxanne says, waving a gloved hand; and _yes_ , Cullen thinks with a spinning head, _she is definitely smiling_ , _thank Andraste_ , as she looks both of them over with rather deliberate slowness. “After all, I was on the road for weeks with only Blackwall’s beard to keep me company.”

“Hey!” Cullen hears the Warden’s protest from the left, almost lost in the laughter that rises up from all those on the training grounds. _Did she just make a joke?_ , he thinks, almost disbelieving.  “Quit that shit, will you? There’s nothing wrong with my beard!”

“For birds, sure,” Sera chimes in, poking her head out from behind him. “I mean, yeah, for…”

“Let’s not get carried away with the innuendos, children.” That’s, of course, Hawke, and Cullen notices how some of Roxanne’s company look immediately slightly chastised. He also spots a Grey Warden uniform and a face he vaguely recalls from that mad day in Kirkwall when his commanding officer turned into a red statue.

 _Stroud_ , he remembers, memory of him striding through magefire and fallen abominations rising. _His name is Stroud, and he was there with Hawke’s little sister, Bethany that day._

The amount of people from his past in _that_ city is rising alarmingly. Cullen hopes this is not something that will aggravate his condition.

Which is surprisingly stable so far, given the severity of the last attack. Cullen is cautiously optimistic about the regime he’s devised for himself and which, he’s keenly aware, is maintained with the help of at least half a dozen individuals in Skyhold. It is yet another mark of the changes within himself that he does not feel this an intrusion on his privacy. He, after all, asked Cassandra to watch out for him. In turn, she did the sensible thing and consulted the Inquisitor, who, also being very sensible and practical, enlisted others to ensure he remains in prime condition to lead her armies. If this involves Flissa making sure he gets regular meals sent to him to his quarters when he’s stuck there working, Adan and Elan repeatedly asking him to give his opinion on some ‘herbal tonics’ they are experimenting with as sleeping aids, Cassandra and The Bull offering sparring assistance, Lysette and Rylen previewing his correspondence daily, Vivienne  supplying him with light conversation regarding rather fascinating facets of courtly life during dinnertime, not to mention Varric leaving copies of his _Hard in Hightown_ serial in his office on a regular basis…

Well. That’s what friends do, after all.

 “I propose a commencement of this discussion in the tavern with somewhat more beer than what we have now.” Hawke waves a hand towards the _Herald’s Rest_. “It’s cold here, and we’re disturbing important morning training… things.” She throws a look at Cullen and whistles. “You know, I had _no_ idea you were into that bare-chested barbarian look, but...”

She winks, and Cullen somehow doubts that this would be as neatly filed into the ‘things friends do for each other’ category as everything else. Then again, one never knows with Marian Hawke, does one?

“Shall I dig around in the armory for that Avvar stuff from the Fallow Mire expedition of yours, Roxanne; what do you think?” she says now, tilting her head towards the Inquisitor who has a decidedly contemplative look on her face.

_Yes, just when I think my morning can’t possibly get any worse, it kind of does._

And then, inexplicably, blessedly, miraculously, it gets better again.

“Oh, _la_.” There is that Orlesian shrug again, accompanied with a slight scrunching up of her nose. It makes Roxanne, for lack of a better word, absolutely _adorable_ , but Cullen files that thought away in the ‘never under any circumstances should this be revealed’ category and reflexively looks around to see if Cole is somewhere in the vicinity. “As long as no one wants you and me to mud-wrestle as an equal spectacle, Hawke, we are good, I think.” She clicks her tongue at her horse and waves a hand. “As you were, everyone; a lovely morning for grappling exercises.”

She turns her mount with practiced ease, but before they trot away towards the stables, she throws a look back over her shoulder and says, with an exaggerated arm flourish towards Cullen and Bull, leaving him _completely_ bewildered:

“And I truly appreciated the welcoming sights, gentlemen. It is _good_ to be home.”

Hawke’s snort and Sera’s laughter rings into Cullen’s ears for quite a while after that, as he attempts to get through the rest of the practice, using every ounce of professionalism he has remaining. The Qunari’s tendency to not particularly care about how he throws his weight into the exercises helps to keep him focused, and he manages to finish without more than a couple of bruises.

He’s leaning on the fence of the grounds, with his shirt properly on and tucked in at last, doublet around his shoulders against the wind but unbuttoned and feels actually pretty good about how the morning practice went.  The soldiers in advanced training are going through the guards and the first two plays with the lower and upper keys, and he keeps trading the occasional correction or instruction with them, when he hears The Iron Bull’s sharp intake of breath next to him.

“Oh shit,” the great Qunari says quietly. “We’re in trouble.”

“What?” Cullen hears Dorian saying, but as he looks up towards the doors of the tavern, he feels his eyes go wide and the air goes out of his lungs with one painful exhale as something in his stomach constricts.

Three women just walked out of the Herald’s Rest, right next to each other, and are now heading straight towards the training grounds. It’s Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall Marian Hawke; Seeker of Truth and Right Hand of the Divine Cassandra Pentaghast, and the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, Lady Roxanne Trevelyan. They stroll towards them with that purposeful, measured stride that is only ever used by women who are used to carry sharp weapons and armor; their steps are slow with just enough swing in the hips to indicate that the armor they normally wear is much heavier than what they have on now:  light chain hauberks and vambraces and sword belts.

Most people stop and stare, training forgotten, and Cullen is shamelessly doing the same. Those three, he thinks, are like lionesses of the Western Approach stalking their prey in sand and short grass, with the eyes of those who know that they can and _will_ inflict terrible violence on anyone in their way… Right now, however, they are just content walking and looking dangerous and lethal and…

 Cullen knows he just swallowed audibly and he’s pretty sure that every man even half-alive and under ninety in the courtyard is contemplating absolutely forbidden thoughts just like he does, because, _Maker_ …

“I am told by Seeker Pentaghast here,” Roxanne Trevelyan says, pulling herself over the fence in one smooth motion and swinging her legs around to sit, “that you have taken unfair advantage of her time when it came to sparring sessions, Commander.” Next to her, Marian Hawke and Cassandra Pentaghast are following suit, looking for all the world like they are absolutely unaware of the effect they just had on every warm-blooded male in Skyhold who saw them.

“I…” He clears his throat, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “She is the most experienced sword-and-shield warrior in Skyhold, Inquisitor. If I offended…”

“Not at all.” Cassandra says, carefully moving her shoulder around in a little arc and Cullen pales a bit, remembering a full body slam from a week ago that knocked her on the ground and dislocated the joint there.  He is still feeling a bit guilty about that one, however much she insisted that all was well. “I merely suggested to the Inquisitor that it was time for some change.” She stretches up, arching her back and sliding off onto the training ground; Cullen sees at least four of his trainees swallow. “We need to prepare for all eventualities. Dorian, you and I will move over there,” she indicates a corner of the yard near the infirmary, “and we shall practice some nullifying techniques. Without, hopefully, setting fire to the invalid,” she adds with a slight scowl and Dorian has the good grace to look a bit chastised, because he also remembers last week. “Messere Hawke volunteered to assist with Captain Bull regarding two-handed versus shield techniques for the rest of the morning.”

Hawke winks at the Qunari.

“I promise I will not run around in circles in the yard, captain,” she says mildly. “I only reserve that for Arishoks, you know.”

The Iron Bull guwaffs and Cullen can’t hide a smirk himself, remembering that famous single combat in Kirkwall.

“Ha! I like her, Seeker,” the Bull says, and executes a very fine Orlesian-style bow. “I promise I will be gentle, Champion. Unless, of course you prefer otherwise.”

“Nah, it’s shiny, Captain.” Hawke slides off the railing and stalks towards the mesmerized trainees. “I’m old and harmless these days, really. “ She spins around, arms held at an angle, that lopsided grin of hers on full display. “See? Come, children, pet my head.”

“I’m pleased to see you’ve reconciled your differences with Hawke, Cassandra,” Cullen says hastily, because really, at this point the conversation just needs to be moved along.

“I did not have differences with the Champion, Cullen,” Cassandra says precisely and a bit too stiffly. “As a point of fact, I was attempting to find her to join us. My differences were entirely with Varric.” She pulls her sword out, shrugs and looks at Dorian with a determined face. “Shall we, then?”

“Thank you _oh_ so much, Commander,” Dorian mutters, “for bringing that one up right before she knocks me on my ass. Please do send flowers for my funeral.”

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Dorian,” Cassandra says as they move away towards the corner of the yard. “Seeker powers are different from Templars. You will be fine.”

“So.” Cullen throws a cautious side glance at Roxanne, as he realizes that with the Bull and Hawke taking over the training, he’s pretty much finished here. “Does that mean more humiliation for me against your unassailable druffalo?”

“Hm?” Roxanne balances on the railing with her hands clasped in her lap, leaning slightly forward, watching Hawke cackling madly at something The Iron Bull just said to one of the soldiers. “Oh. My apologies, but no.” She makes a face, shakes her head; Cullen watches her almost physically pulling herself out of a mood that tried to settle itself over her. “I just…” She looks at him sideways and sighs. “Are you still all right to talk about…?” She makes a vague waving motion with her hand, “You know…”

She is usually so eloquent, her speech so organized and clear, that it takes a little bit for him to figure out what she meant.

“Ah.” He nods, a little bit too enthusiastically. “Of course, Inquisitor, I’m at your disposal.” He isn’t sure what this is about, but the facts are there, and they are slightly worrying. She has just arrived back to Skyhold, went straight to the Herald’s Rest for presumably a tankard as Hawke indicated, and then came here to grab him and…

 _Shit_. _Is she about to have another episode?_

“Thank you.” She slides off the railing. “I appreciate that.” Her formal cadences are back, but the tremulous smile she throws his way as they start walking betrays that it’s merely a façade. “I know I probably should have gone to change and rest and do this by the book the way sensible leaders do it when they arrive back from an extended forward campaign, but…” She exhales a bit too forcefully; Cullen notices that those carefully enunciated words are actually much less formal that they used to be. “I had a choice between sitting in the tavern and getting drunk with Sera and Blackwall, hauling you out to the training yard for sparring and getting hurt because I am so tired I can _hear_ colors right now, or going to the chapel and try to offer this all up to the Maker. And…” She shrugs and looks at him sideways, almost shy. “And I really do not wish to see all the people I would probably meet if I did any of the above. So I am asking you.”

“What happened?” He’s really just following her as she strides up the wide stairs leading to the great hall. “Your reports from Crestwood were…Forgive me for saying this, but they were not indicating anything that…”

“It was not anything there.” Roxanne shakes her head almost angrily. “Let me be more precise: all the events in Crestwood and the news about the Wardens were about as bad as to be expected. Yes, all Wardens in Orlais are now hearing the Calling, which is their term for a certain ability enabling them to sense the end of their lives. Yes, their Commander is now cooperating with the Venatori to construct a blood ritual to somehow stall or stop this. Yes, an almost immediate redeployment of our forward troops into the Western Approach will be necessary to follow-up on this most disturbing development.” She takes the steps by the two now, and Cullen realizes they are heading straight for the Great Hall.

“War Room debrief, Inquisitor?” he asks, increasing his stride to keep up. “I thought we had one scheduled only for tomorrow to accommodate your request for rest after your arrival. I wasn’t aware it changed.”

“It hasn’t, Cullen.” It hits him that she’s using his name now and he’s still calling her by her title; it hits him that they only ever drop the formality when no one else can hear them, and even then it’s only the titles they don’t use. It hits him, and makes him a bit sad, a bit wistful, and a bit mad at himself for only ever hinting at his feelings towards her, never actually _saying_ anything, not even in his letters. Not even after…“I need advice on something. You are my advisor. And…” he can see that delicate pink shade spread on her cheeks, “…this is not something I wish to discuss with anyone else.”

“Oh.” That is not quite what he expected, to be honest, and it makes him just a bit uncomfortable. “Of course, Inquisitor…Roxanne.” He hesitates. “Are we…going into your quarters? I do not think…”

“Cullen.” Her voice sounds exasperated. “If you are going to say that it is not appropriate for one of the chief advisors of the Inquisitor to advise her in private, I will hit you. With all due respect, right here in the middle of the Great Hall, for every Orlesian hanger-on to see. Not to mention your own soldiers.” She huffs. “It is broad daylight, for Andraste’s sake. Even the most debauched Val Royeaux courtier would not think that I am set out to seduce you right after arriving from a mission and march you through the Hall before doing so.”

“I…ah, that’s not what I meant…” Cullen hates that he almost choked on those words, and hates the fact that he knows he blushed. And he hates the fact that yes, of course he’s lying by saying that.

“Yes, it was,” Roxanne says calmly and smiles a little, but the smile is brittle. “And I was being nice to Orlesian courtiers. I _have_ lived in Val Royeaux; of course they are probably thinking exactly that. I am hoping the Inquisition is not an organization where such rumors should even be considered for a second. I also hope you agree.”

 _About the Inquisition not being the hotbed of rumors or about the seducing part_ , Cullen almost says, but luckily bites it back just in time. _Because I think you are wrong on both counts,_ but of course he doesn’t say that either.

“As you say, Roxanne,” he ends up saying, neither here, nor there, and she looks at him sharply as she opens the door to her quarters and marches up the stairs ahead of him.

He has never been here, except at the first walkthrough when they determined that this suite of rooms will be the future private quarters of the Inquisitor. That decision paid off when it was discovered by Master Gatsi that its well-lit largest room is connected directly to the war room by a hidden staircase in the wall. Josephine and Vivienne were responsible for the inner decoration, though, not the dwarf. Cullen has to admit as he follows Roxanne up the set of stairs and through yet another double door, that they spared no expense.

There are a lot of personal touches, though, that are not the gilded Orlesian wall sconces and great stained glass windows. The hand-hooked rug in front of the fireplace is obviously of Free Marches origin. The dark walnut workdesk dwarfs his own, but the neatly sorted piles of paperwork and the tray of letters set at an angle make it look almost graceful. And the reading corner near the great fireplace with what looks like a low couch strewn with pillows, a colorful Rivaini throw and side table and bookshelf piled with tomes not in the least organized, but betraying a haphazard reading habit.

“All right.” Roxanne does not even slow down. She marches to the side where someone piled her saddlebags. “This will make it much easier to understand; if I start explaining, I will get all emotional and I absolutely do not need that right now.” She unbuttons a pouch, pulls out a folded letter, and hands it to Cullen, who takes it with slightly numb fingers. “Please read it while I shred the armor and make sure I stink less.” She nods at a door by the fireplace, presumably with her bedroom on the other side. “I will be right back. I think Flissa left some hot tea on the sideboard over there when they brought up my baggage—help yourself. The sofa will swallow your soul if you are not careful, though.” She shakes her head. “Forgive me, I am still not quite myself. Do give me a moment…”

She disappears behind the door; the latch closes with a click, and Cullen is alone with a slightly wrinkled onionskin in his hand and a growing sense of unease as he starts to read.

 _Inquisitor_ , the letter says, very officially, in Leliana’s tiny, precise handwriting he immediately recognizes, _I cannot delay_ _bringing this to your attention, even though I’m fully aware of the consequences. I’ll be brief. The agent I’ve placed in your family’s household has informed me that there was an infiltration attempt by Venatori amongst the servants. This particular attempt was unsuccessful, but the agent uncovered a plot to kidnap at least one, possible multiple family members and eliminate the rest._

“Shit.” Cullen says softly, lowering himself onto the couch, hands gripping the letter tightly. He tries, somewhat in vain, to imagine how he would react if someone tried to threaten Mia, Branson or Rosalie the way this letter implies Roxanne’s family was. Would he be able to carry on with his duties, or would he leave everything behind and grab the fastest horse in the stables to race to South Reach on his own immediately? And would he tell anyone?

 _By the time you receive this letter,_ he reads, that dreadful feeling in his guts churning ever tighter, _I’ve dispatched my best squadron of agents to extract your family. They’re to be brought to Skyhold with the best possible speed to keep them safe. I’m taking all responsibility for these actions and am at your disposal to discuss upon your arrival. Maker keep you in His light. Sister Nightingale._

He closes his eyes for a second, head tilting back from the weight of just what he’s read. Not merely the fact that the Trevelyans are in danger, that they are drawn into the lethal game between the Venatori and the Inquisition, but that Leliana…

He feels nauseous. Leliana _told no one_. Not Josephine, not him, not Cassandra, not even the Inquisitor until _after_ she acted, until after she decided what to do and simply did it, starting with placing an agent in the Trevelyan household Maker knows how long ago and…

No wonder Roxanne is slightly distraught. Cullen knows he would have marched straight into the spymaster’s office on top of the rookery tower, slammed his fists on her table and demanded explanation. Fade take it, he’s half-tempted to do it right now on Roxanne’s behalf.

But that would accomplish nothing. Leliana, Sister Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine did what she did for reasons of her own, and even though Cullen strongly disagrees with _how_ she did it, he is experienced enough by now with both politics and with dealing with the enigmatic spymaster to know that he should withhold judgment until he has more facts at his disposal.

Roxanne, on the other hand…She is probably devastated. Herald of Andraste or not, she is still relying on the trust she instinctively has in people, and Cullen can see how her sharp mind probably immediately picked up on the implications of Leliana’s actions. These past several months were a hard school of leadership for her indeed; Cullen has been Knight-Captain and second of the Templars in Kirkwall for more than ten years and he is definitely man enough to admit that at Roxanne’s age he would have crumbled at the weight and pressure of what she had to endure lately.

 _This is all going to go to the Fade in a handbasket if I don’t handle it right_ , he thinks as he looks around for that sideboard and the tea that Roxanne mentioned, more to do something with his hands than from real need to drink.

_I need to think. I need to remain calm and professional. I need not to think about that speech I was composing for the last two weeks about this mass of feelings inside of me. About how it makes me so happy to receive her letters when she’s out in the field. About how much it meant to me that she trusted my judgment after that horrible breakdown. About how absolutely nothing ever was going on between me and Hawke. About how I miss her every time she leaves Skyhold. About how I look after her every time she leaves the War Room when she’s here, watching her hips move, imagining…_

_Stop it, Rutherford._

_You need to figure out how to talk to her about this latest development. About Leliana’s letter.  Without coming across as either patronizing, dismissive, or defending Leliana.  Or a babbling idiot entirely in the clutches of his dreams and desires, not to mention his lyrium withdrawal and its side effects. You are one of her advisors, as she put it, that’s why you’re here now. Not because of some insane hope that she might actually also have feelings for you… so put those dreams aside, you washed-up old ex-Templar, and serve._

He places the letter very carefully on the reading table and busies himself with pouring from the graceful and expensive-looking Orlesian porcelain teapot he finds on the sideboard along with other paraphernalia similar to what he remembers seeing in the old Amell mansion he visited when Hawke’s mother was still alive. Cullen remembers how stiff and uncomfortable he was the first time he got an invitation to one of Leandra Amell’s little afternoon gatherings. He smiles briefly at the memory while he rummages around and fixes his drink with a touch of fresh milk and a tiny spoonful of sugar, just the way Hawke taught him. He inhales the subtly spiced scent rising from his cup deeply and feels something tight in his chest relax just enough so that he breathes easier. Roxanne apparently prefers her tea strongly spiced with cinnamon, cloves and some other spices Cullen can’t identify. It is oddly comforting and almost-jolting to the palate at the same time, especially after the bland soldier’s fare Cullen is used to.

His eyes are drawn to the spines of the books on the shelves, naturally, and, before he knows it he’s standing half-bent, with his tea almost-forgotten in his hand, studying the titles with a slightly guilty feeling as if he was spying on something…intimate.

_It’s just books, old boy. Relax. You are not rummaging through her smalls drawer._

Still, the possibility of seeing the tomes she reads when no one else is here… Cullen can just see her after nightfall, colorful Rivaini throw pulled around her shoulders, tired feet resting on a pillow as she curls up on the sofa… He swallows as his imagination overtakes him in an instant, picturing her pale skin, translucent at the wrists as she turns the page, lyrium-blue veins shining through, illuminated by the verdant glow of the mark on her left palm. Her smooth forehead slightly wrinkled in concentration, emphasizing the dueling scar, ruby-red lips slightly parted as she thinks upon a passage, snow-white hair falling free about her shoulder in great waves… He has never seen her hair down, he realizes, and the sudden, dizzying image of pulling the hairpins out of that severely coiled updo of hers with his own hands causes desire swell up dangerously…

 _Oh, look, a book on strategy you’ve never read_. _Quick, Rutherford, grab some dry passages from a book by a long dead Tevinter general so you don’t end up absolutely embarrassing yourself when Roxanne comes back to the room and finds you in a state more suited to a sixteen-year old_.

“ _The strategos should always be cautious in exercising matters of immediate troop deployment,”_ he reads, opening the slender tome with slightly trembling fingers and randomly letting his eye wonder over a passage. “ _That is, however, not an excuse for pusillanimity in claiming concern for the safety of troops. If you wanted to safeguard your army, why did you venture into enemy territory?”_

That does the trick, combined with some breathing and thoughts of the icy peaks of the Frostbacks, so by the time Roxanne returns to the room, Cullen is halfway through the book,  and in an entirely fascinated state of mind but for an entirely different reason that before.

“ _Do everything possible to find out, on a daily basis, where the enemy is and what he is doing. Even if he is not cunning, do not underestimate him—act as if he were ingenious.”_  Where did you find this?” he asks, barely lifting his eyes from the pages as she walks in. “He’s talking about a regular spy force, employed by the general on the field, sending them daily to discover the enemy’s secrets. This is almost like…”

Her short, bitter laugh makes him stop and stare at her in surprise.

“All the books on that shelf…and that is what you…?” She shakes her head and steps to the sofa to throw herself down right next to him. “You know who gave that to me? Leliana.”

“Oh.” The soft sigh from his lips is only partly of the surprise over her words. A larger part of it is that she is sitting so close their shoulders touch, and with neither of them wearing armor, it is rather electrifying.

She is still absolutely properly dressed, covered from her neck to her toes, but she left her doublet off and her billowing white shirt with lace at cuff and throat is made of heavy silk that slides with every breath on her skin with an almost-audible sound. Her hair is pinned up properly, but the dampness of the tresses ad the slight redness of her cheeks indicate she took at least a hasty wash before changing.  The scent of her lavender soap tickles Cullen’s nose.

“So.” She sighs deeply, dropping her head back to the back of the sofa, the graceful curve of her neck marred by tautness born from the news in that letter, no doubt. But she was never one to shy away from hard things, so she immediately continues, using her brisk, no-nonsense Inquisitor voice Cullen knows so well from the War Room. “You have read the missive, I take it?”

Cullen nods carefully. Roxanne shuts her eyes and swallows.

“I had some time to think on the road, you know. I was not even all that mad by the time we arrived back. And then, seeing Skyhold and.….” She shrugs. “All of it just came back. I can see why she did what she did, I can see how it is the right thing to do, but…”

“But you don’t have to like the way she did it.” Cullen says cautiously, mimicking the way she sits almost unselfconsciously, and feeling some of the tension leaking out of him. “And probably because when you had time to think about it, you realized that had you been in her place, you would have done the exact same thing.” He pauses and adds. “And that usually rankles.”

Roxanne snorts, and Cullen secretly breathes a sign of relief.

“Maker, you can say that again. ‘ _Rankles’_ …” she says, tentatively weighing the word. “That is a good word. The fact that I was not hysterical over the fact that the Venatori just tried to do harm to my family, but over the fact that our spymaster placed spies as a protection in their home without consulting me previously…well, that alone should have told me just how deeply this pile stinks.” Cullen feels her hand touch his arm, feather-light and settle there, in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you for talking me off my high horse, Cullen. It was wrong of me to assume that Leliana’s concerns about my family’s security should always take into consideration my filial sensibilities.” A pause; he keeps his eyes closed because this is one of those fragile and precious moments that would shatter otherwise. “And I still talk like someone in a dusty book. What I meant is: of course, I am aware that the security of that operation and the agent in my family’s household…that Leliana would always place the well-being of my immediate…oh, dammit, I probably need to get drunk to sound like normal people!”

Cullen chuckles. He can’t help it; the laughter somehow just bubbles up and out of his chest over the absurdity of the whole thing. He also realizes suddenly that he doesn’t have a headache, and their leader has apparently decided that she is not going to cleave their spymaster into half the next time she sees her.

 _It’s the small things that are important,_ he thinks, still smiling a bit. _Like her hand on my arm, like the way she slowly realizes just how stiff and formal she is in most situations and tries to remedy it, or even makes fun of it now. Like the way her nose scrunches up when she’s annoyed with herself over something._

Like the way they are sitting on that sofa together, in quiet companionship, between two bouts of saving the world.

“What I really think bothers you,” he says quietly, “is that your family is coming here.”

‘Well, of course!” she chuffs, indignantly, but her hand remains on his arm. Cullen feels no small amount of triumph over that, even though his heartbeat is practically audible. “They are not used to traveling at all. Papa’s gout makes it a nightmare, and _maman_ most likely is in a tizzy to leave her garden behind. Fredick is probably fretting over the whole thing and Rhodri…” She makes a little hiccupy sound, and Cullen’s eyes finally pop open because, Maker, _is she crying_ …?

“They will be fine,” he offers, cautiously, tilting his head sideways and looking at her from so close he can see each individual freckle around her nose. It makes him dizzy a bit, like good wine. “It will be cold on the road and they probably need to lack for a lot of comfort, but once they’re here…”

“I told Hawke.” Roxanne says, sniffling a bit. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, her nose is slightly red, and Cullen has the urge to take her in his arms like never before. “After I got the letter, I mean. She… she sent a raven back to Leliana when I couldn’t make myself. She said she made sure Fenris was found and that he was sent to help to retrieve them.”  She rubs her nose. Even here, in her own rooms she is wearing a glove over her left hand, and Cullen’s heart goes slightly broken by the sight. “If anyone can bring them through safely across the Waking Sea and half of Ferelden, if we know anyone who can be trusted with this absolutely, it’s him; that’s what Hawke said to me and wrote to Leliana, and so...”

Another sniffle. He doesn’t even think as he reaches into his pocket and hands over his handkerchief.

“Maker, Cullen, here we go again,” she says in between blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes. “Look at me: the Herald of Andraste crying on your shoulders and borrowing your personal items for how many times?”

“Doesn’t matter, lady,” he answers honestly, because, really, what can he say? “Like you said: with him they’ll be safe. Will you speak to Leliana?”

“Soon,” Roxanne says, sniffling. “As soon as I no longer look like a child who just had a temper tantrum, “  she adds, in a lighter voice Cullen is very, very much glad to hear. “And I promise I will not break her Satinalia gift either.”

“She’s your spymaster.” Cullen says drily. “She probably _knows_ what you got her for Satinalia.” He snorts as a thought occurs to him. “For all I know, she probably subtly influenced the merchant to sell you exactly what she wanted.”

 “I _knew_ it; I should not have bought the purple shoes with the bells. Damnation.” Roxanne sighs, and then (Cullen thinks he’s dreaming this, for sure) she drops her head on his shoulder. “Thank you. Again,” she says, in an almost-whisper. “I am not very good at this, but…”

“Think nothing of it.” He knows his voice is just a little bit rougher than usual, but hopes she does not notice. He holds himself very, very still as he glances down on her, and realizes that she is completely exhausted, and is probably half-asleep, if her heavy-lidded eyes and deepening breathing are any indicators.

“Will you stay?” she mumbles, turning into his shoulder the way she did back in Haven in that long-gone washroom where he first held her after a breakdown. Cullen feels his arm curl around her almost reflexively and finds yet another fragile, precious moment he should preserve forever in his heart.

“Always,” he hears himself say, and he suddenly remembers with crystal clarity of an old song from Orlais. Maryden, their bard sings it in the tavern from time to time, but hasn’t for a while now; but Cullen realizes suddenly, listening to the slowing breath of the woman falling asleep  leaning against him, that he, from the very first time he heard it, knew that it was Roxanne’s in his mind.

And it always will be.

 

_Blanche com lys, plus que rose vermeille,_

_Resplendissent com rubis d’Oriant._

_En remirant vo biaute non pareille,_

_Blanche com lys, plus que rose vermeille._

_Suy si ravis que mon cuers toudis veille_

_Afin que serve a loy de fin amant,_

_Blanche com lys, plus que rose vermeille,_

_Resplendissant com rubis d’Oriant._

 

_White as lily, redder than a rose,_

_More splendid than a ruby Oriental_

_Your beauty I regard. No equal shows_

_White as lily, redder than a rose._

_I am so ravished, my heart knows no repose_

_Until I serve you, a lover fine and gentle._

_White as lily, redder than a rose,_

_More splendid than a ruby Oriental._

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: Hey, look, more obscure historical references in this one. I really should make it less obvious that I was trained as a medievalist in a past life.**
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> **1\. The wrestling moves that are demonstrated in this chapter are almost verbatim quotes from the early 15th century Italian martial arts master Fiore dei Liberi’s book, Flos Duellatorum or Flower of Battle.**  
>  **2\. The book that Cullen randomly grabs from Roxanne’s bookshelf is based on an 11th century Byzantine military treatise, titled by its modern editors the Strategikon of Kekaumenos, not to be confused with its earlier, more famous cousin, the Strategikon of Maurice.**  
>  **3\. The rondeau at the end is from the 14th century French composer, Guillaume de Machaut, canon of Reims and secretary to John of Luxemburg. I give both the original, and its somewhat clunky English translation for proper enjoyment.**


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